


As I Am

by Ardatli



Series: The Dale Cycle [3]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crusaders!AU, Except for Billy, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Heather Dale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Teddy is a crusader, Billy isn't technically a pilgrim, and some sins get enthusiastically committed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As I Am

**Author's Note:**

> With deepest gratitude to my betas on this one, feebleapb and arcanelibrarian. 
> 
> As before, it's not necessary to have read the rest of the series to understand this one; all you really need to know is that Billy's still Jewish and magical, Teddy's a Crusader, and they've been on the road for a while. 
> 
> Please note: The guys start off with a bit of dutch courage to ease the way, but they’re nowhere nearly drunk enough for consent to be a concern.
> 
>  
> 
> [Inspired by the song “As I Am,” by Heather Dale. ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TF5oqpYvxyc&list=PL2kdjR4vw6B9Y7nDiAUmCs1lEAzQumVKr)

_The only thing I want is that you love me if you can  
And I only ask you take me, you take me as I am_

**October 1201, Provence**

Even this far south, the fall rains were cold. The sky hung low overhead, the clouds so swollen and dark that William could reach up his arm and all but touch them.

What would they feel like, running through his fingers? They might be like the fleeces piled in the corner before his mother took them to distaff and spindle, oily wool that promised softness but tangled rough over the fingers. Or would they be more like the mist of the fog that surrounded them in the dank, chilly mornings, so thick at a distance and fading to insubstantial grey at close examination?

Water ran along the edge of his hood and down his spine, and he poked the fire with grim determination. It flared up hopefully, a glimmer of red under the sheltered overhang, but the sodden air and wetter wood would not allow for more than that. The rest of the camp was quiet as day settled into evening, a few small fires banked and left under cooking pots, tents raised and warm inside. The arrival of the French troops had swelled their numbers to a group the size of which William had a hard time truly comprehending. They were moving now as an army in truth, no longer a single line of hopeful knights and hangers-on, but a full battalion riding off to war, blood and glory.

Along with the French, of course, had come more supplies, more carts, more squires to run and joust and play among the tents. And then there were the girls, the camp followers who trailed along behind, tending to laundry, cooking and mending, among other things. The girls who were all too willing to catch a man’s eye, to secure themselves a loyal knight and true.

Or a wandering pilgrim, apparently, if he was handsome enough.  

Thomas was going to pay for this. He was going to pay, and _pay_ -

There were drugs that removed a man’s abilities to perform. If Thomas was so ruled by his cock that he would turn his own brother out of doors in the rain so that he could take a girl to bed, then William was duty and honour-bound to find himself an apothecary at the next city. A little tincture of mint in his stew and he would soon be rethinking his priorities.

He stabbed the fire viciously, and sparks flew up from the desiccating logs in response _._

So caught up in his own sad and sorry physical state as he was, he barely marked the shuffling of feet behind him, the sounds of a steady tread on the path. It was not until a hand fell on his shoulder, tentative and lighter than it might have been, that he sat up and took notice. The fall of Theodore’s dark green cloak was spotted with rain, the water beading off the tightly-woven wool. The face beneath the hood was cast in shadows, but those shadows vanished when he smiled.

“I was told that there was a drowned rat skulking about the camp,” he opened, his eyes raking along William’s hunched figure. William straightened despite himself, his body thrumming in tune with Theodore’s gaze. He sat up, keeping his feet close to the fire, but the heat it gave off was nothing compared to the warmth that burned up from the inside at the sight of Theodore’s smile.

Thomas was right; he was an idiot and a numbskull.

In the four months that they had been riding with Gregory’s men, had Theodore ever given indication that he had inclinations toward William other than friendship? He had not taken a girl to his bed tonight, but that said little except for proving that his taste was better than Thomas’.

It was enough, though, to be the recipient of that golden smile, to bask in the warmth of it, and of his gentle mockery, and to forget, for a moment, that he had anything at all in the world to fear. It would have to be enough.

“If this rain keeps up,” William replied, tipping his hood back to better see, “I’ll pass right through ‘drowned rat’ and end up at ‘fish’ before the week is out.”

Theodore chuckled, low and rich, and the smile blossomed on William’s face before he could think to try and stop it. Theodore crouched down, then, so their heads were more of a height, and rested his forearms on his knees.

“Why are you not in your tent?” he asked after a minute, the firelight playing red and gold along his hands, his thick fingers and broad, calloused palms. The scar from the arrow wound was buried under the folds of his tunic and cloak, layers of fine green and red wool guarding it from William’s sight. “A quarrel with Thomas?”

“Nothing so dramatic.” William shrugged. “He has found himself some entertainment of the female sort, and I find myself banished. It could be worse,” he suggested, blinking up at the charcoal of the sky beyond the overhang, the edges of the clouds tinged red with the last vestiges of the setting sun. “The rain is light and the wind is not too bad-“

It was as he said it that he regretted putting it to words, a bolt of lightning cracking overhead. The thunder followed in a rolling roar, and William flinched despite himself.

Theodore snickered. “Best keep your thoughts to yourself, miracle man, or we’ll be floating away in an ark before too much longer.” He held out his hand, either unaware or ignoring the way William’s brow had lowered at the nickname. He had said it with kindness (with perhaps some affection, if William allowed his fantasies to run riot) and without the undertone of careful distance with which his brother knights treated William now. Healing Theodore’s wound was one miracle that William could not ever wish away, but he could have done with less of an audience. Thomas could overcome the hesitation with which so many of the others regarded him, through sheer force of will and charm, but William had not been so lucky.

Beyond his brother, it was safe to say, Theodore was like to remain his only friend. And that, only so long as they both travelled along this road. Thomas did not bother to ask, now, when they would break off from the Crusade and make their own way again; he only looked at William and smirked.

And sometimes, he looked at William and Theodore, on evenings when their heads bent together in easy conversation, and he frowned.

But he held his tongue. And so William, in turn, held his.

“Come on,” Theodore pushed against his knees and rose to his feet, holding out his hand to William. His robes fell down around his knees as he straightened, the firelight picking out the lines of stitching, the fine silk thread, the golden embroidery of the dragon upon his surcote and the brooch that kept his cloak clasped at his throat. His skin was golden there as well, from the sun as well as the firelight. His pulse would beat there, in the hollow of his collarbone, thunder against any pair of lips pressed to his skin-

William was staring and he glanced away abruptly. Theodore’s adam’s apple bobbed once as he swallowed, a gesture caught from the corner of William’s eye.

What could he possibly have to be nervous about?

“Come where?” William asked after a moment, and he rubbed his hands against the damp wool of his pilgrim’s robe before placing his palm against Theodore’s. Theodore’s fingers closed around him, encompassed his hand in heat. Fingertips brushed against the inside of William’s wrist, the briefest searching flutter, before Theodore gripped him tightly and pulled him to his feet. William went, hauled to standing, and oh the strength coiled in those muscles that could move him so readily…

He had seen Theodore unclothed before, when they had paused at a small river and taken the chance to bathe and wash out tunics and shirts alike. William and Thomas had stayed back, taken the chance to bathe where they would not be seen, their bodies not remarked upon.

The knights had still been at play when they had returned. They had been like children, Thomas had snorted, splashing each other and lying out on the banks to warm themselves in the sun. Their linens were draped in the trees to dry like so many white crows, or ghosts in winding sheets.

Theodore had shone then as well, his blond hair curling wet around his shoulders, the handful of scars that traced his side and arms testament to the life of violence he embraced, his nipples tight with cold when he breached the surface of the river. William had wanted nothing more in the world but to press his mouth against one, lick the drops of water from his skin, sink beneath the surface of the river, take Theodore’s prick into his mouth, and…

Drown.

“Back to my tent.” Theodore nodded across the fire to his tent, sitting a little apart from the main circle, flaps closed and canvas dark. “I can’t allow our patron saint to die of a fever before we even reach Venice,” he joked.

This was an exceptionally bad idea. He could wait for Thomas to finish entertaining his guest, crawl back into dry clothes and his own bedroll and wait out the storm. He should let the thundering pulse in his body fade away untouched, not dwell on the unattainable or let fantasy overtake his reason-

Lightning and thunder struck once more and this time Theodore jumped. He was watching William with dark and unreadable eyes, his lower lip curled in where he was chewing at it. Was _he_ the one more concerned with the storm? It seemed so out of place for him to be nervous over something so prosaic, but then, every man had his weaknesses.

“No fevers,” William promised, and drew his hood up over his head again. “I may not be a big brute like you, but even I have some soundness of limb.” Though the exaggeration was unfair. Theodore was broad-shouldered, true, but not so much taller than William when they stood side by each. And apparently, Theodore – the great dragon himself – was afraid of storms.

If Theodore was nervous about thunder, then the least that William could do would be to provide him with company and distraction while the clouds rolled by overhead.

Water and mud splashed around their feet as they ran for the tent, mud splattering up William’s legs and soaking his hose through before they reached the security of the canvas. Theodore untied the flap and held it up for him to duck inside, breathless and his face flushed by the time he found his flint and tinder and lit the candle. He brushed the sodden hair back from where it stuck to his forehead with a huff of impatience.

Theodore’s tent was about the size of the one the twins were sharing, perhaps a little larger. A waxed cloth protected them from the ground and a large bedroll was unfurled along one side; an ornate chest stood facing it, the leather strapping chased with ornate figures and hints of painted gold. Theodore hauled the lid open to reveal folded clothes, some books, the glint of maille spilling over the dark folds of fabric.

His cloak was wet through and clung in sodden folds to his legs, and William peeled it from himself with a grimace. The tent was only slightly warmer than the air outside and he shivered at the chill, his hose and boots holding the water close to his skin. Something hit him and draped over his head - a dry shirt. Theodore was in the process of taking off his own, his back and shoulders rippling as he stripped the damp linen from his body.

Theodore was standing close in the tent, too close, and though his back was turned as he dressed, it was impossible not to note the taut lines of his muscles, the curve of his seat, the strength in his legs. His hose hid little of his form, cupping and cradling each sinuous line, the bulge of his crotch cast in half-shadow beneath the hem of his shirt. William’s prick stirred at the sight and the thought, a pleasant ache coiling deep within his gut and his breath catching before he found the wherewithal to look away.

It almost hurt to pull his eyes away from Theodore. He drew the clean linen over his head and wrapped it around himself. Theodore’s shirt was too big for William’s shoulders, and cool from the autumn air. It smelled faintly of _him,_ the oil that he used to keep his leather jerkin supple, the metal tang of his chain maille, a musk lying beneath that William wanted to breathe in, to pull into his lungs and keep there forever, a little piece of this beautiful man inside him, always. His body responded, warmth slowly returning to his limbs.

Think of something else, something that did not revolve around Theodore’s shoulders, or his scent, or the way that he would turn on William in a heartbeat if he knew the dark desires that ran beneath the surface of his so-called ‘holy’ mind.

He dropped his head and worried himself with his own task, draping his cloak over the tent’s cross-bar in the hopes that it would dry faster.

The hose- no, he would keep his hose on. They were not so damp that they would not dry quickly enough, and the process of untying his points would be a little more revealing of his current state of semi-arousal than could ever be safe to reveal. He could blame it on the growing warmth in the tent, perhaps, or-

Or take the coward’s way out and live with wet feet.

He could take the boots off without betraying the reactions of his body, and he dropped down into the wooden chair to peel the leather from his calves.

Theodore glanced back over his shoulder, only the once, and the candlelight cast an illusion that made his cheeks look flushed as he turned away.

Blankets came from the chest next, to wrap about themselves, and a skin of wine that was so much better than the swill they had been buying from the local towns that William wrapped his hands around the boiled leather and all but growled at Theodore when he attempted to take it back. Theodore laughed, dodged to the side as though prepared to tackle William off the chair to take the skin back-

And the images _that_ generated in his mind were so distracting that Theodore was able to retrieve the wineskin without a fuss. He brought the spout to his lips, his eyes fluttering closed, and his lashes against his cheekbones were simply unfair in their beauty. The sunlight washed them out, sometimes; too bright against the gold of his hair. But here, in the flickering candlelight, every detail of his face was thrown into relief.

“It will be a few weeks more before we make camp for the winter,” Theodore began, something indefinable in his blue eyes as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Travel. Travel was a wonderful mutual topic of discussion, and William took the wineskin back, careful not to let his fingers graze against Theodore’s as he did so. It was too dangerous; he was too tired, too infatuated, too- too _stupid_ not to let something break through, if he did. And exposure meant death.

He had no desire to die today.

\--

The candle had guttered out by the time they had finished the wineskin between them, and Theodore made no move to light a second one. The world had settled into darkness outside, hushed voices and the occasional burst of laughter from other tents punctuating the sounds of the rain. The thunder had moved on, but still the wind shook the canvas of the tent, a chill gust breaking between the layers every once in a while to chill their bones.

William had migrated to join Theodore on the bedroll by this point, bundled close in the wool blanket he had been lent in lieu of his cloak. Theodore tossed the empty wineskin in the general direction of his chest and flopped back upon the bedroll with a laugh. William’s head buzzed in concert with the sound, a delightful tingle that suffused his bones and ran through to the ends of his fingers and his toes.

He could curl up here and simply not move, refuse to leave the warmth they had generated between them, the blankets piled around them, the heat of Theodore’s body close beside.

But Theodore had said something that was _wrong_ , and that simply could not be borne.

“William the Marshal,” William pointed out, propping himself up on his elbow and gesturing in the air in frustration, “is the greatest fighter the tournaments have ever seen. You cannot possibly mean to compare his record of five hundred victories against some... some French _by-blow_ with a measly ten-score and six.”

Theodore snorted, head lolling back against the blankets and his lower lip stained dark with wine. “Five hundred victories against carefully chosen opponents in tournaments convened by invitation is hardly comparable to success at a proper pas d’armes! A knight who cannot face down more than one opponent at a time is hardly worthy of the name.” He laughed up at William’s frowning face. “ _I’d_ fight him.”

“Then I hope your family has enough on hand to pay your ransom,” William fired back, grinning in return. “Because you’d find yourself unhorsed and in fetters in moments.”

“You doubt my skill?” Theodore pressed a hand to his bosom and put on the pretence of affront, the twitching smile at the corners of his mouth giving him away. His hair fanned out, golden, on the bedroll beneath him.

William nodded solemnly. “You have many miles to go, young sir knight, before you can best England’s boldest on the field.”

“If William the Marshal ever fought on the field, I might take that under consideration.”   

Really, he was too arrogant to be borne, however well he might have earned that right to boast. “If you’ll not give way on this, then fine. Our good King Richard. Surely he was worthy of consideration. And _he_ led armies into war.” And to Crusade, which he could not condemn in front of Theodore, but which at least in Richard had been tempered by a certain form of kindness.

Theodore went very still, very suddenly, and he stared up at William, blinked, did not reply. A frown began to form on his expressive face, and William felt a chill. Had he said something wrong? Had King Richard or his men been on opposing fronts to Theodore or his father in the past? He had somehow mis-stepped, and he flushed cold with regret.

But then the smile came back to Theodore’s eyes, and whatever had passed between them, thick with indecipherable meaning, was gone. “Richard was captured and a prisoner of Leopold’s for two years,” Theodore pointed out with a wicked grin. “Are you sure you want to name such a coward as your champion?”  

“He was no coward!” William objected with abject horror. “Even his enemies granted him the name of Lionheart. Retract your insult, you... _barbarian_.”

“Lionheart?” Theodore snickered and rolled on to his side, facing William. They were so near that they could almost be touching. It would be so easy to slot his body in beside Theodore’s and press him down, to feel the tension bunch in his muscles, to taste the hollow of his throat and find that flickering pulse beneath the leather-oil-metal smell of the bachelor knight.

“I think you misunderstand. Your old crusader king was not ‘Lionheart,’ fair, misguided William,” Theodore teased, and poked William’s chest with one finger. “Not coeur-de-lion, but ‘Coeur-de- _Lyons_ ,’” he added, emphasizing the accent in the language that was a second tongue to them both and the only one they had in common.

“Coeur de Lyons?” William repeated, feeling lost. He was missing something, something in the way Theodore’s eyes lingered on his lips, in the aborted twitch of his fingers against his own thigh.

“Lyons,” Theodore repeated, more quietly, this time. “It is said that he had a passion for the French Dauphin. That they wooed, loved… bedded. Half the world knew it.” He cocked his head, then, lost some of that vulnerable look in his eye, and it was only in the passing of it that William realized it had been there in the first place. “Was it only England that did not?”

The bottom dropped out of the world. William stared at Theodore, and it were as though the sun was rising in his eyes. Was this idle gossip meant to inflame his anger and provide subject for debate between the English pilgrim and the Holy Roman knight, or-

William said nothing, his mind turning over furiously. He could find out immediately, now, simply by leaning in, or by getting up and leaving. With the first option rested the chance to fulfil every desire that burned in his blood, every whispered fantasy and sticky late-night sin.

On the other, life.

Theodore lay there, unmoving, watching him. William took a breath, but he had waited too long. Theodore began to sit, to move away, and there was fear in his eyes, dark and wild.

He leaned forward and seized Theodore’s face in his hands, pressed their mouths together, his lips closed. It was almost chaste enough that he could deny it later, claim the influence of the wine, anything that would let him keep his head and his entrails where they needed to be.

Theodore went rigid in his arms.

He had misunderstood after all – _damnation!_ Terror flooded through him, replaced that first impassioned burst of desire. He had guessed wrong, he had guessed _wrong_ and now he would be exposed. If he was lucky, they would be turned out of camp alive; beatings could be healed, the pyre could not.

And then hesitant, slowly, Theodore leaned over to follow his mouth. He pressed his lips against William’s, closed at first. He traced the seam of William’s lips with the tip of his tongue, tentative and light. William opened his mouth, whether to say something or to breathe, he could not be sure. His mind was clouded with desire, thick and desperate, and he grabbed at Theodore’s shirt to find some kind of purchase. He fell to his back on the blankets, Theodore’s tongue slipped inside his mouth, and there was no space left in his mind for thought, rational or otherwise.

“So England _does_ know,” Theodore whispered against William’s mouth, bracing himself on his arms. He straddled one of William’s legs, his thigh slotting between Willliam’s knees. God; the muscle there from sitting his horse; did he want – would he allow-

William took the chance, stroking his hands up the long lines of Theodore’s thighs, and they trembled beneath his touch. His hose clung to the shape of his muscle, soft against his fingers. Theodore’s mouth was on his again and William kissed him back, ran his hands up under that loosely-hanging shirt to the folds of Theodore’s braes. He was hard beneath the buttery-soft linen, his hips rolling into William’s hand in an involuntary thrust. He gasped, and William kissed the sound from him. “Please,” Theodore groaned softly, and William pressed a finger against his lips. Silence – noise would be their undoing.

Theodore nodded and caught his lower lip between his teeth again as William slid his hand along the length of his prick. There was wetness already gathering on the fabric that separated them, and it took all the control William had not to pull at the ties until they snapped, shove his hand down inside and simply _take_.

There was no way to know how much time they had before someone heard, someone came to the tent, interrupted them. If he didn’t get the chance to get his hands and mouth on Theodore before that happened, he might well die from yearning alone.

Theodore had taken advantage of his momentary distraction and was pressing kisses down the length of his body, pulling aside the folds of his shirt. He dragged strong fingers across the planes of William’s chest, catching on a nipple that was already diamond-hard and sore.

The contact was a sharp point of pleasure-pain and William hissed, arched up into the sensation as Theodore fastened his mouth there and sucked. He laughed at William’s response, smiling against his skin, until William scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders and dragged him up to meet his mouth once more.

He had to ask, he had to know, though the likelihood of regretting it was high- William kissed him again, rolled his hips against Theodore’s, so that their pricks aligned and rubbed together. Sparks shot down his spine at the contact, spinning and gathering at the base where a powerful heat was already smouldering. “Have you done this before?” William asked, and he bit lightly at Theodore’s plush and swollen mouth.

“Yes-“ he answered, a slight hesitation there, “and no.”

“Both?” William laughed. “That sounds as improbable as my-“ _magic_ , he would have said, but for ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ “Miracles,” he finished instead. Theodore’s cock was pressed against the hollow of his hip, hard as any sword, and he thrust up against Theodore to punctuate his comment.

“I’ve played, as boys do,” Theodore shrugged off the answer as if it were meaningless, then fixed his eyes on William. “You?”

He managed a nod, then, “but never like this, as a grown man, with someone-“ he paused, then, “with a friend.” There had been a handful, bright stolen moments of secret pleasures, enough to learn what he liked and how to please another, but none of them as bright and beautiful as _him_.

Theodore lowered his head to graze his teeth across William’s collarbone, his neck, before finally seizing on his earlobe and sucking it into his mouth. William groaned low, remembering only at the last moment to choke the sound back in his throat. He wanted to see Theodore, to watch that glorious golden skin paint red with blushes and with lust, to stripe his release across the plane of Theodore’s stomach and claim him as his own, even if only for a night.

He reached for the hem of Theodore’s shirt to pull it over his head and off, but got his hands batted away for his troubles. “If someone should come,” Theodore murmured into his ear, casting a glance back at the tent flap, still tightly tied and secure.

“Let them come,” William murmured back, but dropped his hands to Theodore’s hose points instead. The wool slipped between his fingers as he tugged, popping the laces free.

Theodore gripped his hips and pulled him over until William was straddling him, knees on either side of Theodore’s thighs. He stroked his hands up William’s legs, lingering on the muscles of his calves, tracing patterns up the wool that covered his knees, his thighs. His fingers stroked the top of William’s hose and found the skin of his thigh beneath, tucked in and circled the edge. His touch was sure but gentle, a soft brushing of skin on skin that did nothing to quell the ache rising in William’s core, the coiled tension that wrapped around the base of his spine and sent blood rushing to his prick.

He was hard, so hard and yearning, the roughness of the fabric against his prick more of an irritant than any kind of pleasure, and still Theodore did not speed his motion. He stroked down with his thumbs, caught the hollows of Williams’ thighs where they met his body. William jerked and bit back a low and needy groan. His teeth were sharp against his tongue, the pain the reminder that he needed – _silent, keep silent, or they will know –_ and he rocked his hips up, desperate for pressure, contact, anything that would end this aching tease.

Theodore circled his thumbs, pressed in against that dip in William’s thighs then brushed up and in, catching William’s balls on the upstroke. The pressure was barely there, the backs of his thumbnails smooth against the tight, hot skin, William’s balls were already drawing up, heavy, hot and tight. He wanted Theodore’s hands on him, around him; or maybe his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with desperate hunger.  

Their teeth clashed together as Theodore lunged in, fastened his mouth on William’s and plunged his tongue deep inside. William opened for him, wrapped his arms around him, fumbled at his waist to free Theodore from his braes; get them _offoffoff_ and feel his skin, his prick, get it in his mouth and suck and lick and taste.

The blankets were warm under his knees as he kissed his way down Theodore’s body, scrabbling to push the layers of fabric away. His dark green hose were a black line against his thigh in the near-darkness of the tent, Theodore’s thigh pale and the hair sparsely scattered. William bent his head and licked that stripe of naked skin, framed by white linen on one side and dark wool on the other. Theodore bucked up against him and hissed at the touch of his tongue, and the joy bubbled up to explode from him as a laugh, because this – this was _real_.

He twisted Theodore’s hose points in his fingers, dragged the top of the hose down just a little more so that he could suck at the flesh thus revealed. He had had his hands here weeks ago, under circumstances so different, Theodore’s blood running hot around the arrowhead that had pierced him through. There it was, the top of the scar, and William dragged his tongue across that as well, raised and smooth in the darkness. Theodore’s breathing stopped dead and William flattened his hand against his hip to hold him in place as he trembled. His braes tented out obscenely, a spreading wetness at the top demonstration enough of his desire. William kept his mouth at the top of Theodore’s thigh instead, biting and sucking at the edge of the wool, the contrast between that and the heat of his skin, the hollow of his thigh.

He finally took pity when Theodore began to curse under his breath in that vulgar language of the Rhine, the harsh gutturals rolling off his tongue and his hips jerking upward in awkward and shaky rhythm. It only took a second to loose his braes and pull his cock free, and even in the darkness William needed a moment to take in the view. Theodore sprawled beneath him, unlaced and undone, his hose rolled halfway down his thighs and his cock jutting proud from his body, flushed red and hot against his stomach. William sank down on it, his lips parting to take him in, hands gripping at Theodore’s hips to prevent him from thrusting in too quickly.

Theodore tasted of summer, of sunshine rides and starlit nights, he was salt and sour-sweet, and thick enough to stretch William’s lips and fill him up entire. William tongued at the fold of his foreskin, pushed it down with his hand, sucked at the crown of Theodore’s prick first lightly, then stronger, to see which he liked best. Theodore jammed his knuckles into his own mouth and keened softly, eyes screwed closed as he rode up into William’s mouth. His other hand scrabbled for purchase as William rose up and dropped low again, taking in as much as he could, to impress Theodore upon his memory, upon his flesh.

“Stop,” Theodore gasped out, grabbing for William’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “I want-“ William pulled off, already mourning the loss of that taste of him, the weight of his prick heavy on William’s tongue. He sat back and Theodore sat up to join him, scooping his hands around William’s buttocks and drawing him close.  Their lips locked and Theodore licked in to William’s mouth, the heat of him all but unbearable.

He felt his own braes come loose, his attention diverted by Theodore’s hand cupping his balls, tugging at them, stroking and fondling. Then there was a hand around his prick, stroking up, and it was too dry, just on the good edge of pain and too much, but his cock was leaking at the tip and it would only be a moment before everything was wet and hot and lovely again.

Theodore stopped.

William froze.

_damnshitFUCK._

Theodore drew back his hand and stared at William with a frown creasing his brow, as though attempting to divine something from the expression in his eyes.

 _Fear, that’s what he sees, fear and panic and how could I have been so_ stupid _?_

His eyes looked down to where William was straddling him, to the edges of fabric pushed aside to allow him access, to where William’s prick still stood, erect despite the sudden rush of terror, red-tipped, yearning… and circumcised.

Theodore frowned. “You are no Christian,” he began, as though trying to wrap his mind around something new and not entirely pleasant. He stroked his thumb up the vein beneath William’s cock and around the faint and sensitive scar. William gasped at the sensation but pulled back, drew his – _Theodore’s_ – shirt more firmly around himself.

He could lie; lie and say that there was another reason, or that he had had his moment on the road to Damascus, and all that came with such notions. But he looked into Theodore’s eyes and found himself unable to find the place to begin. His blood began to settle, his arousal fading to be replaced with the curling edges of fear. “No,” he replied, and he waited for his fate to be pronounced. “I am not.”

That frown was devastating, but there was not as much condemnation in it as he had expected, more… curiosity, and bewilderment. But then Theodore spoke again, his brow furrowed in thought.   

“Are you a heathen... or Mohammedan?”

William drew a breath. He looked up at Theodore through the dark hair that flopped over his brow, and willed with all his heart for this to end swiftly, cleanly; perhaps Thomas could still escape, if he sounded the cry loudly enough.

“I am a Jew,” William replied softly, and he braced himself to jump back, get away; his boots were under the chair, his cloak between the bed and the tent flap. He had a chance-

Theodore just chewed his bottom lip in thought. “But you’ve been baptised since.”

“No.”

He did not reach for his sword, nor shout to raise the camp; he simply looked at William. The tent was dark, but there was enough light still to watch his expression slowly lighten, the furrows vanish from his brow, and kindness replace the questions in his eyes.

Theodore took William’s hand, stroking the palm with his thumb once, twice, the same way he had stroked his thighs before. William’s breath caught in his throat, his heart racing despite his better intentions. Theodore’s touch was fire, shooting through William’s body to pool in the centre, tightening and pulsing with his heartbeat.

He let Theodore turn his hand over and place it on the place on his thigh where he was scarred. It would be pink, in the light, still angry. William’s magic had sparked there, bright and terrifying, knitted bleeding flesh back unto itself. If he crooked his fingers, dug in, he might be able to feel the rush and burn still sitting there, the miracle floating beneath Theodore’s skin.

"Whatever faith you profess," Theodore began, slowly at first and then with earnest longing. He tipped William’s chin up with the fingers of his other hand so they were once more eye to eye. “From this alone I know you are blessed."

Relief, oh blessed relief and salvation in one combined. William sagged with the pull of it, caught by Theodore’s arm sliding tight around his waist. Tipping his head to kiss Theodore won him an eagerly opened mouth in return, warm lips on his, a hand sliding up his thigh to slip beneath the upper band of his hose and encircle his thigh.

There was just one more thing- William broke the kiss, ignoring the whimper Theodore made at the loss of contact. Theodore’s fingers traced circles at the top of William’s hose and his prick jerked up in response, but he could not let himself be distracted, until-

“You’ll not betray us to Gregory?” he asked, and Theodore fell still, but only for a moment, one that passed so quickly William could not be sure it had been there at all

“And what would I say when he asked?” Theodore asked lightly. He paused, licked a wet stripe down the middle of his hand, and wrapped William up in his broad palm again. “‘How now, Theodore, how did you discover him?’” he imitated Gregory’s cadence and speech, with a faint thread of mockery. “Should I say, ‘well my lord, I had my hand wrapped about his prick at the time-‘” He broke off with a laugh and a twist of his hand, and William thrust up eagerly into Theodore’s grip, his body ready to forgive without question.

“Your secrets are safe with me,” Theodore murmured into his ear as he stroked him. “ _You_ are safe with me.”

That earned a kiss, and William sank his hand into Theodore’s hair as their hips rode together, those golden waves silk-soft between his fingers. Theodore’s grip on his prick was sure and strong, his strokes steady in their pace. The fire was building in him again, curling and burning in the base of his spine and in his balls. He needed-

William curled his free hand about Theodore’s prick, bringing it in line with his own. The heat and length of him was unbearably good, pressed up against William’s, their rocking together catching him just under the head. Their foreheads tipped together and held there, each bracing the other, their panting breaths mingling and coming in harsh gasps. Theodore shifted, laced his fingers with William’s and encompassed them both, fist wrapped around their two cocks together. Spit and pre-come salved their path, their hands slick with it and sweat prickling at the backs of William’s knees.

A low groan broke the panting silence they had kept, and Theodore buried his face in William’s shoulder, his face burning hot. It was harder and harder to keep quiet himself. He felt teeth sink in to the fabric of his tunic, Theodore’s hips rocking faster now as he thrust up into their interwoven fingers.

“ _Please_ ,” William begged despite himself, teetering on the edge of a precipice, pleasure burning through everything until he had no sense left at all, could not remember why it was so important that they stay quiet in the first place.

Footsteps sounded outside, and the sound of drunken laughter. Theodore sat up with a start, his eyes wide and panicked, but his hips only stuttered once before he found his rhythm again.  William took a breath, then Theodore clamped his free hand over his mouth and cut off what he had been about to say. He relaxed into that support, closed his eyes and pressed his mouth against Theodore’s palm, thrust up into their hands.

There it was, looming bright above him, as the sounds of the camp echoed outside their little private shelter. He was almost- he tightened his grip around them, felt the hard length of Theodore’s cock sliding against his, catching just there, and there, and _oh_ , _OH_.

He sank his teeth into Theodore’s palm as the pleasure burnt through him, coiling and exploding out through his cock, covering their hands and Theodore’s prick with wet heat. All turned to white.

Theodore followed him down a moment later, the slick of William’s release guiding his path. His mouth found William’s throat again, the join of his shoulder, and the sting of teeth and hard suction broke through the brilliant haze of satiation that had settled warm around William’s mind.

They collapsed together back to the bedroll, limbs entangled and slick between their bellies. William tightened his fingers around Theodore’s despite the mess, kissed him again and again as he slowly regained the ability to breathe. Theodore kissed him back, bit lightly along William’s jaw, his throat, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He was murmuring things in the German tongue, the words thick and warm and needy as he punctuated them with the pressing of his lips. His leg was flung over William’s hips, his cock softening between them and his arm wrapped tightly around William’s shoulders.

He should move, should clean and redress and slip back to his own tent, so that they could pretend that none of this had happened. The next day would dawn and Theodore would regret his lapse, and if William was not there when it happened – well. He could pretend that this was something he would get to keep.

“Stay,” Theodore murmured in his ear, when William made to roll over and stand. He tightened his arms about him, until William had little choice but to acquiesce.

“They’ll find me here in the morning,” he objected, but the rain pounded down on the roof of the tent, and the night outside was cold. The blankets here were warm.

“There is nothing amiss with men sharing a bed in the cold,” Theodore pointed out, rising up on his elbows to look him in the eye. His hair fell down over his brow and William tangled his fingers in it, pushed it away so that he could see something of Theodore’s eyes in the darkness. When he spoke again it was in a whisper. “I would have you stay. Unless you do not wish it-”

And how could something such as that ever be denied? William’s heart ached at the plaintive note behind the sound, and he nodded acquiescence before his more logical mind could find him more reasons to refuse. “I do,” he replied simply, and let Theodore pull him down to the nest of blankets once again.

\--

It was only much later, in the dead of night, his body thrumming with pleasure and warmth, his skin clean and his clothes back in order, that William found sleep curling in at the corners of his mind. Theodore was a solid presence in the darkness, curled in so that his knees pressed in behind William’s own, and one arm looped across his waist.

He was so close to sleep and to dreams that he first mistook the murmured sound for a facet of his own mind. Theodore’s voice was mazed with sleep and awe-filled, his gentle whisper brushing the back of William’s ear.

“William Dragon-heart.”

William tightened his hand about Theodore’s and fell into a deep and all-embracing slumber, his heart, for once, at peace.

\--

The camp rose with the sun, as it ever did, and William opened his eyes to the sounds of pots clanking, jeers and cheers and squires’ running feet.

He was not in his own bed. Nor his own tent. The warm body nestled in behind him was not his brother, sharing heat in the chill of night.

He was in bed with Theodore der Drache, General of the Baron of Methengau’s crusading army, and their fingers were laced together in the same way as they had fallen asleep.

William sat up with a burst of terror, pulling his fingers free. He would be found here, he would be _found_ _out_ ; Theodore would come to his senses, his head unmuddled by wine, and William would be cast away.

The movement disturbed Theodore’s sleep and he rolled over and raised his head. He blinked, bleary and confused, and his eyes fell upon William. He sat up at once, his eyes wide, and they stared at each other across the pile of blankets that had been their sanctuary.

William couldn’t move. If he moved it would break this spell entirely, and then there would be nothing left but to grab his clothing and slink away. They would have to separate from the Crusade. Thomas would be just as happy to be travelling alone once more, and then there would not be the ever-present threat of exposure hanging over them. Yes, that was the only option; he’d had a taste of heaven only and would have to be satisfied with that for the remainder of his days.

Theodore was the one to break the silence, moistening his lips before speaking. He ducked his head, a gesture both unusual and disarming, and when he looked up at William again it was through the fringe of his bangs. “Not a dream, then?” was all he said, his gaze tracking down William’s arms, the borrowed shirt he wore, lingering for a moment too long on his hands where they pressed against the blankets.

“Do you often have dreams about me?” William found his voice, the whip-crack retort out before he could think himself out of it. He softened it with a curl of his lip, a half-hesitant smile.

“More than you know.” Theodore smiled, then, slowly unfurled his fingers and reached out.

 William extended his hand, his other bracing himself against the bedroll, and he laid his palm in Theodore’s.

This kiss was as sweet and tentative as the night before had been reckless and hasty, morning souring the taste of Theodore’s mouth. But he leaned in and pressed William back against the blankets and his hands skimmed down over his sides, his face, his legs, as though making sure that William was real. He buried his face in the crook of William’s neck and breathed him in, then laid kisses down the column of his throat and to his chest.

“I am a commander of men,” Theodore began, his voice breaking upon the final word. “And I cannot command my own desires. I am a weak and trembling sinner.” He pressed kisses along William’s flank, his stomach, his hip through his shirt. “And with you, I would sin again, and again, and again-“

Voices from outside cut in and William grabbed for his shoulders to bring him back up to lie even with him. “Not now; we can’t,” he murmured, claiming Theodore’s mouth another time before pulling back. “But when it is safe again, yes – yes, a thousand times yes. I am for you.”

It took the shape of an oath in his mouth, a promise made sacred by the very existence of the beautiful man in his arms. It echoed, a resonance of something else half-remembered, but the tendril of thought slipped away before he could more fully grasp it and turn it into the light.

Theodore frowned, braced himself upon his elbows beside William. “Your brother-“

William nodded, slowly. “Thomas is safe; he knows my heart. I could not hide it from him even if I wished to. He will not betray us.”

He was answered with another kiss, and the heat stirred deeply within him in response to the feel of Theodore at his side and the pressures of the morning.

Footsteps jangled and crunched on the ground outside the tent, a shadow falling across the canvas, backlit by the sun. Theodore rolled instantly to his feet, cold air rushing in to fill the void where he had lain. William dropped back and pulled the blanket over his head to feign sleep, frozen where he lay.

The flap of canvas announced a new arrival, the number of footsteps suggested two. Arnould’s voice piped up, bright and clear. “Good morning, m’lord. There’s bread to be had; shall I bring it to you?”

“No, thank you,” Theodore answered, and there was the sound of creaking hinges; the chest in the corner. “I’ll come out and eat with the men.” 

A boot dug into William’s ribs and he stretched, making a show of opening his eyes and yawning into Barnabas’ face. “Morning, friar.”  The knight grinned down at him, one tooth missing, and nodded perfunctorily before turning to Theodore again. Theodore was pulling a fresh shirt over his head, tossing the old one aside. William did not look, but rubbed his eyes instead and slowly sat, making himself as unobtrusive as could be done, given where he was.

Theodore’s expression had changed in the scant few minutes William’s head had been beneath that blankets. That sweet adoration was utterly gone, replaced by a smile that did not reach his eyes. He was remote, removed, and so far out of William’s reach that he might as well have been the King of Jerusalem.    

“How’s your head?” Barnabas was saying, grabbing Theodore with his open palm across his skull and turning his head back and forth. Theodore grimaced but allowed the liberty, pulling his belt snug around his waist. “Are you cleansed and pure after spending a night at confession?”

“Better than yours, after spending a night in the stews,” Theodore shot back, laughter on the surface of his voice. “You look as though you’ve had no sleep at all.”

“Sicilian dregs gave me a head worse than a beating. Give me good Frankish wine any day,” Barnabas complained. William reached for his boots, trying to ignore the conversation, and the movement caught Barnabas’ attention again. “Why _is_ he here?”

Theodore paused for a beat, long enough for William to notice, but Barnabas gave no sign. “His brother had the tent,” Theodore explained, shrugging his surcote over his head and hiding his face for a moment within the fabric’s folds.

“His brother had more than the tent if the sounds were any indication,” Barnabas laughed and William winced. His boots were still a little damp inside but he pulled them on regardless, the leather sticking to his hose as he inched them up his calf.

“What about you?” Barnabas elbowed Theodore soundly in the ribs as he bent to pull on his boots. Theodore didn’t wince, but slammed his shoulder against Barnabas as he reached for his drying cloak, catching him in the side. Barnabas took the blow, grinning. “Surely there was one girl willing to put up with that ugly face of yours for the night.”

Theodore arched an eyebrow, and did not look at the bed. “And earn myself another night of penance and confession?” he asked, giving a half-hearted shrug.

“Ah yes,” Barnabas hooted, and held the tent flap so Theodore could precede him out. “I forget. Abstemious and _virginal_ Theodore; your piety shames us all.”

“Ask your _sister_ how abstemious I am.”

The tent flap fell again, William entirely ignored. He sagged his shoulders and bowed his head, chatter and voices drifting in along with the birdsong as the world woke for the day.  He breathed in deeply, let the mingled scents of damp wool and bright leather fill and buoy him up. They could not have the daytime, but they had claimed the night. If God was kind, and looked the other way a little longer, it might not be the only time.

He stood, boots finally on and the rest of his clothing reclaimed. He hesitated before setting Theodore’s borrowed shirt down upon the chest, tucking it instead beneath his arm. He would wash it before he returned it; that was only polite, after all. The bundle felt warm beneath his arm, proof physical beyond the aches of his body that the previous night had not been a fever-dream. He closed his hand about the linen, a faint convulsion of his fingers, and the texture of it was as an anchor to his wandering thoughts.

_Dragon-heart._

William stepped outside and let the tent flap fall closed behind him. The breeze was crisp, the sky was clear, and he tucked the words in tight, close about his soul.  

**Author's Note:**

> According to a recipe book from Saint Hildegard of Bingen (1098 – 1179), mint was a major ingredient in a medication which could be brewed to reduce “fleshly lust.” 
> 
> Hildegard of Bingen, _Causae at Curae_ , ed. P. Kaiser, Leipzig, 1903. P. 194
> 
> \--
> 
> A drop spindle was a device used for spinning fibres into threads before the invention of the spinning wheel, and is still used extensively in some rural areas. The distaff is a device used to hold the raw washed and carded fleece as it is being spun into thread.
> 
> Girl with distaff and spindle, from about the right era: http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_VC_ZjklSs6I/TGzYfCOC-JI/AAAAAAAAAW4/l8BGuU2zgrU/s1600/petzold_97.png
> 
> \--
> 
> Braes, hose, tunics and long braes.
> 
> http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3d/Braies.jpg
> 
> \--
> 
> Some scholars do believe that King Richard I was bisexual, citing public penances he made for unnamed sins following sermons against sodomy, his total lack of interest in his wife (and subsequent childless marriage), and his supposed passion for the Dauphin Phillip II, the crown prince of France. While Richard’s theoretical penchant for both men and women appear to be supported by the historical record, an affair with Phillip II seems to be only a facet of more modern fiction. Doesn’t mean I can’t abuse it. 
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_I_of_England#Marriage_and_sexuality 
> 
> Interestingly, despite heading off on Crusade, Richard I was one of the better English kings as far as treatment of the local Jewish population went. While no doubt motivated far more by economic pressures than any concept of religious tolerance, Richard passed statutes that protected the Jewish communities in England from attack, and levelled heavy fines against non-Jews who committed anti-Semitic violence. 
> 
> \--
> 
> William the Marshal was one of the greatest English tournament fighters, served four separate English kings in a variety of military posts. He died in 1219 at the age of 72, two years after riding at the head of Henry III’s army at the Battle of Lincoln, and signing the Magna Carta treaty that resulted. 
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Marshal,_1st_Earl_of_Pembroke
> 
> \--
> 
> “The stews” technically refers to the Bankside Stews, which was the main centre for prostitution in 12 – 18th century London. Theodore would have used the German slang term for something similar, but I wasn’t able to figure out a reasonable period equivalent for the Holy Roman Empire with any certainty. So rather than make something up, I went with the English version.


End file.
